


Retribution

by InsaneWeasel



Category: Mianite - Fandom, Realm of Mianite - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Loyalty, M/M, Maybe its two-sided, Obessive Dianite loyalty, but its all angst, one-sided romance, syndisparklez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 19:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16646384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneWeasel/pseuds/InsaneWeasel
Summary: What if Dianite won? If Ianite was no more, what then? What would become of them?





	Retribution

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by @DatOneIdiot's art work and an answer to a Tumblr Ask. Tumblr's just stupid on mobile.

To many, the defeat of Ianite was a reminder of the state of things—of all that had lead up to this point. To even the antagonists of the tales, the explosive maniacs with the bamboozling antics of the hare-brained fools who have acted in ways to cause great grievance to the heroes—even to them and all their inability to grasp the dire consequence of their actions—there was a bitter reflection to be had.

The war was not yet over, but it was in the falling action. Great setbacks for the justice-seeking Mianite followers had stalled their calls for action, and their acts of defiance grew lesser and quieter and far between. They were becoming accustomed—accepting of what had happened. The bubbling and raging feeling for a resolution—for a revenge filled plot to renew the old world, to send them all back to hell had long cooled. In that time, it had solidified into a solid mass of capitulation. A submission to the hand of Dianite. Some had not cooled entirely, but the vast majority who had were starting to do more than distance themselves from the hot-headed with a spark. It was turning to disdain and disgust.

As for the remnants of Ianite—the sea-farers and the lone man who had been known well. There was a baited silence. For the well-armed Mianite followers were nothing if compared to the one man who had all taken from him, had his life stripped bare by those he called friends, lost even the support of the Mianite followers—it was he who Dianite paid most mind. He whose demise was routinely called for—any chance for his submission and willful cooperation having been obliterated by time and the wearing of patience.

It was expected of one man to end this. Once and for all. Through deceit. Through violence. Whatever means. It had been the mission demanded of him for years, but the demand only increased.

He was out on the edge of the cliff that over-looked the sea. The remains of the Ianite Champion’s house dilipidated and full of over-grown weeds and flowers behind him. The charred remains of Jerry’s Tree lay forgotten and the grass had only now started to heal and begin patching the earth around the tree. Most of the wood not obliterated by being smote from hell had been harvested by nearly everyone on the island. The Wizards stole it for building, Mianite followers harvested it for several uses, and Tom had stolen it just to steal it. In the end the wood was sitting in a corner of his basement and its magic-reinforcing properties long having worn off—instead a population of silverfish had infested it.

He sat there, expectant. It would not be the first-time he was stood-up. Nor the last at this rate. He had sent the invitation out to no avail numerous times. It never went answered. The Ianite Champion could have died at sea, never to be heard of again, and no one on the island would know. Maybe he finally had.

Tom buried his fingers in the green grass at the edge of the cliff, the waves crashing below. His sword lay beside him  as well as a picnic blanket, a couple of glasses, and a bottle of whiskey. There was a set of baked goods and a flask in Tom’s pocket. He had already poisoned the baked goods. If he died by them, he knew Dianite would just revive them. That wasn’t the point. The Ianite Champion had no-one to revive him.

There was an approaching ship on the horizon. Tattered violet sails visible where Tom poured himself the drink. Tom didn’t make a move to greet the ship as it grew closer. It was a long-time—or it felt like one. Tom was on his second glass when the ship anchored and a single boat rowed to the edge of the land that used to be his. He paused, watching the row-boat as the larger ship disappeared into the horizon.

Tom’s fingers clenched around the grass. He tore it free in a quick motion and his hand went to his sword, clenched around the handle and then relaxed. After a moment, his fingers clenched around his glass, where he took a deep breath, the scent of the liquor heavy.

The clank of boots and a metal chest-plate rustling against clothes grew louder and louder as the shape of a man climbed a hill. His steps were slow and labored, his shoulders down. Tom stared starkly ahead into the sea. The sound fell to a halt and Tom reached for the other glass. He poured a generous amount and held the glass out.

He followed his arm to the sight of Jordan looking down at him. His hair was disheveled, and his shoulders were tight. His cheeks were gaunter than when Tom had last seen him and he looked to have been torn apart and stitched: the bruises and scars flecking the visible parts of his arms were too great. He gave Tom a shaky smile—but it fell away as Tom lowered his hand with the glass. He set it in his lap with his own.

Tom moved his sword to his other side and pat the ground beside him. Jordan was ill. He had been ill last time Tom saw him, and his condition had yet to improve. If anything, it had worsened with time. Jordan braced his hand on Tom’s shoulder and lowered himself down to sit next to him—Tom reached his arm up to help steady Jordan. An overwhelming amount of weight was pressed onto him, and he could hear the small noises of pain from Jordan. With a heavy sigh Jordan settled and moved his hand from Tom. Tom didn’t, he was worried if he moved his arm Jordan would pitch forward into the sea.

Tom rubbed Jordan’s back steadily. The metal plate was doing a fair bit to obstruct it and Jordan seemed to agree. He unlatched the buckles and with a heavy intake of breath he hefted the damned metal—once glittering, but now worn and dark—over his head and chucked it into the sea. To Tom’s surprise, Jordan treated the sword and bow he had on him with the same regard. Both sailed meaninglessly into the sea.

 Tom grabbed the glass of whiskey and handed it to him. Jordan took it warily and he stared down at it. Speaking for the first time, to Tom: “Poisoned?”

“No, but to be honest, the sweets are—not that you’d eat them,” Tom said. Tom drank from his own glass and Jordan followed his move with his eyes before tilting his head back and bringing the glass to his lips. Jordan drank slowly, some of the liquor running down his chin and down the base of his throat. Tom set his glass down, swallowing the liquor and trying to ignore the burn unrelated to the alcohol. Jordan wiped his chin and dropped his head. He set the glass beside him and coughed, his whole body shaking with the motion.

Tom poured himself more and gently poured Jordan closer to him. He grabbed the picnic blanket beside him and took his hand off Jordan to wrap it around him. Jordan murmured a thank-you and leaned into the blanket and Tom. Tom wrapped his arm around Jordan tightly. He leaned into Jordan himself, resting his head against his head.

“How are you?” Jordan asked.

“Good, finally built that second house I told you about, And you?”

“Better. It’s nice to be here again,” Jordan said.

“What have you been doing?” Tom asked. He reached his free-hand up and brushed Jordan’s hair out of his face.

“You know,” Jordan let out a dry laugh. “Being hunted. Almost smote to death while the ship was sinking. Having half my crew slaughtered while Tony had his laugh.” The increasing bitterness was only balanced by Jordan’s quiet defeat. The banter and sword-crossing of their first encounters had grew more grandeur and then gradually became a reluctant occurance and then into a rare chore neither of them enjoyed. And then into these meetings. Usually they eneded in Jordan’s escape—he’d be more battered and bruised, but successful all the same in the plot he carried out. His organized militia or crew having carried out a blow to Dianite and caused the god distress.

Tom knew Jordan’s crew wasn’t on the island anymore. There was no warning echoing from his god. No rush.

“You have a talent for rebellion—kind of like me,” Tom said into Jordan’s hair.

A soft chuckle. “Two peas in a pod,” Jordan quipped. The cough broke off his final word and Tom adjusted the blanket to cover himself as well. He tried to find a comfier position for Jordan, but Jordan just pushed his doting hands away. Jordan fell quiet as he took another drink of the whiskey.

“I missed you.”

“I miss a lot of things,” Jordan remarked, his voice pitching.

“Jordan,” Tom started, but he was cut off.

“I miss you, Tom,” Jordan stated.

“You have me.”

“I never will.”

They fell silent. Jordan held out his glass and Tom topped it off and then filled his own to the brim. They were running low on whiskey. Jordan drank his slowly, staring off at the sea. The sun was just starting to set—the colors vibrantly cast across the sky—vivid and beautiful. Tom couldn’t tear his eyes from Jordan, the bright colors making him look youthful and untouched by the war. He felt his sword next to him and Tom’s chest swelled with overwhelming emotion. He grabbed Jordan’s face and turned it to his.

“I love you,” Tom confessed. He had known it for years, but he also knew how little it meant. He loved Jordan—but he was loyal and he was devote. Yet, the feeling of loss was growing on him—and he wanted time to have been different—to unmake choices and imagine the alternative.

Dianite was always going to win.

The fantasy had been Jordan surrendering long before Tucker had. Tom teasing him for a short-while, but caving to his friendship with Jordan and inviting Jordan to live with him to avoid the radical Dianite followers who wanted his head. Jordan’s smarts and his reckless abandon impressing Dianite to the point where no doubt lay in Jordan’s ability to be chaotic evil. Tom messing up Jordan while he made traps, the fond smile Jordan would give more often, and a chance to grow their relationship.

But Jordan had never considered surrendering. After the initial defeat after Ianite’s rise and Dianite’s stand in her palace—he had been the first to turn his weapon on Tom. To no avail, but Tom hadn’t expected to be kicked in the back of the knees and been held at sword-point.

Dianite’s stand had been a trying battle—it had been Jordan pleading with him as Tom reached for his bow in the wake of his sword shattering.

“Shoot Dianite—I think we nearly have him,” Tucker shouted.

Tom accused of being a betrayer. Tom who had worked with the heroes rather than be a villain. Jordan worn and tired, but mouth grit it determination with his sword drawn across the room helping Sonja stand from where she had been knocked back. She had her hair pulled back in a hasty bun and was out of arrows. Tucker was by his side, sword drawn and eyes expectant.

Dianite was looking at him, and with a victorious smile, he tilted his chin up.

Tom had double-crossed them. He remembered the request of Dianite, made as a last ditch effort to dissuade Tom from the heroes side as they were heading to Ianite’s land on that damned ship.

“Boy,” Dianite had appeared before him, flames lighting the room. Tom had frozen from where he had been packing his supplies and turned to his god, his shoulders tense. He felt odd. He had been eager to just go through with the whole ordeal. Jordan had already given him a laundry list of supplies and chores, getting onto Tom about not upsetting his goddess. Tom promised nothing and gave Jordan a cheeky smile that got him an eyeroll.

“My lord?” Tom tried.

Dianite smiled. “You still consider yourself loyal?”

Tom hesitated. He thought about Tucker and Sonja and felt his mouth move to say yes, but then he thought of Jordan. The man he had found love in—it wasn’t supposed to stop him—it was nonsensical. Jordan was a grown man. If he wanted to follow his goddess he made up on the spot, he could go right ahead. Tom was _always_ a Dianite follower—as it should be.

“Of course.”

“You waited to give your reply,” Dianite noticed, inclining his head. “It’s the Ianite boy poisoning you with his moralistic beliefs.”

“No,” Tom defended. “I’m loyal to you most of all, my lord.”

“Good. Then shoot him when the time comes,” DIanite commanded.

“My lord?”

“He will not die—his goddess will revive him. She is at her weakest. She has spent a large amount of power trying to overthrow my control. She will use up her defenses to save him.”

“And then you end her?”

Dianite rewarded him with a grin.

The same grin he wore now.

Tom pivoted, the bow notched, and he let the arrow go as Jordan turned to him. He will never forget the wide-eyed look of confusion on Tucker and Jordan’s wordless ‘son of a bitch’. Jordan had never trusted him entirely. And it looked like that would always be the case.

Behind him Dianite had laughed. It echoed across the pavilion and Sonja grabbed Jordan’s shoulders to keep him from dropping like an anchor to the ground, his hand wrapped tightly around the arrow. He looked up at Tom in a mix of disappointment and anger and then his eyes rolled back.

Dianite hadn’t lied. Sonja had stayed behind to help Jordan and Tom had turned on heel and fled. Tucker followed after him, feet pounding the ornate paths of Ianite’s castle as they made it to where the goddess stood herself—cowering. For all Jordan lambasted Tom about how Ianite was a worthy goddess and Tom was too cruel—he saw nothing, but weakness as he could see the fading magic on Ianite’s hands. She had saved Jordan.

And was left defenseless as Dianite rose in power. His form towering over hers. Tom had froze with baited breath—a feeling of guilt tainting the same pleasure and excitement of seeing it happen. Tucker had stopped behind him—words lost as he saw Ianite raise her arm in a final defense—but it did nothing.

The scream filled the end.

Jordan—freshly revived and sword drawn was moments too late. He stood aghast, hand over his mouth in horror as he watched Ianite blow away, like dust in the wind. Yet while everyone looked at Dianite in fear and shock—it was Jordan who was the first to recover. He ignored Tom in favor of Dianite, sword drawn he surged forward and Tom, ever the loyal Dianite follower, blocked him, their swords clashing for the first of many battles, and the last where either were motivated by only their own self-interests.

Jordan, sweat running down his forehead, face smudged with dirt from how many times he had hit the ground, wrinkles around his eyes and forehead as his face scrunched up in grim determination, and his jaw locked—teeth just barely visible over his tensely tightened lips—his faces inches from Tom’s as the metal grate of their swords filled their ears. Jordan whose knuckles were white around the blade of his sword, his arms tensed to the point they shook. Jordan who had never given him a look of loathing like he did now.

Jordan threw everything into killing Tom then and there. He had over-powered Tom, used fist and feet, and pressed his sword to Tom’s throat as if possessed with no purpose other then to end Tom’s life. Dianite blew Jordan backwards as if he was paper in the wind. Jordan had to be held back by Tucker to stop his barrage of attacks. At the time Tom grinned at him—the broiling feeling in his chest nothing compared to the pride his god gave him, the firm hand on his shoulder.

Jordan never looked as filled by intense determination to have his vengeance…

Like he did then.

Tom looked at him now—and the resolve and courage that had held him up all these years was scarcely visible. Worn away by trauma and loss. Jordan set his glass of whiskey down and gently—or maybe it was meant to be forceful and Jordan was just that tired—pulled Tom’s hands away from his face. He held Tom’s hands in his for a moment and then released them and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t make things difficult for yourself, Tom,” Jordan said firmly.

Tom twisted from Jordan, balling his hands up in his hair. “Then what do you want me to say? To do? Kill you without a second word—be this merciless…I’m your friend, Jordan. I’ve always been your friend. I want you to die ha—” Tom stopped.

“You want me to die happy,” Jordan snorted. “Unbelievable. You truly amaze me, Tom.”

“Shut-up. Just shut…” Tom ran his hands over his cheeks, trying to stop himself from crying. “Don’t antagonize me, Sparklez. Don’t…we’ve had this talk before. Jordan…”

“There’s nothing more to be said, Tom,” Jordan said. “You’ve said all that matters, haven’t you?”

Tom couldn’t look at him again. He turned to the side, the blazing lights of the sunset and the swift ocean night’s breeze grazing his wet cheeks. He brought his fist up to his mouth and muffled the noise threatening to break free. Jordan pulled the blanket around himself and was silent. Tom threw his glass of whiskey into the sea and grabbed the bottle and chugged it recklessly, casting a fruitless look at the sea for answers.

“We should stop littering—someone has to pay for what we do,” Jordan joked humorlessly. He shivered against the cold and brought his legs up close to him. Tom heard the cough wracking Jordan’s body and he reluctantly turned, noticing Jordan’s hand go to his mouth. When he pulled his hand away, Tom saw the violet flecks and blood on Jordan’s hand, but the man quickly wiped it on his leg—which was stained with a similar substance.

“If I don’t kill you today…you’d die anyway, wouldn’t you?” Tom questioned. He searched Jordan’s face, and the blue eyes rolled to him, creasing with Jordan’s smile.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Thomas.”

Tom looked away. “You’ll never understand, will you, Jordan?”

“Don’t be dramatic. We’ve done this before. The outcome your _god_ preferred has never changed.” Jordan had to cut his words short as a coughing fit hit him again. Tom put a hand on his back to keep Jordan steady as he coughed. Tom looked out at the sea, at the dimming light and rising moon. And to the light reflecting on his sword.

Tom closed his eyes and he moved Jordan against him—letting Jordan’s back settle against his chest—the man’s disheveled hair blocking his view of the fading light, but Tom paid it no mind. His legs straddled Jordan’s and he wrapped his arms around Jordan’s stomach. Jordan’s coughing fit subsided into a soft few coughs and Tom held him tight.

“I heard it’s like sleep, Jordan,” Tom said softly.

Jordan leaned his head back against Tom’s chest, moving his hand up to grip Tom’s left arm. He felt Jordan swallow against him, and the unsteady breath. “Is it?”

“I hope so,” Tom said and he grabbed his sword with his right hand. It would be a clumsy kill—but his sword is all he had on him. He could feel his or Jordan’s heart beating wildly—at this point he had no idea which.

“I’ll be sure to tell you,” Jordan said, and Tom saw Jordan close his eyes as he opened his. Tom brought his sword closer, and adjust their position. Up through the stomach and into the heart. It’d be easier if Jordan was standing. Dianite wouldn’t allow for a death by slit-throat. It had to hit Jordan’s heart to truly end Ianite. Her champion dying would eliminate balance forever. He had heard this information enough times he couldn’t have wiped it from his mind with any means.

The hand gripping his left arm tightened and Tom readied his sword. The sunset was almost gone and Tom leaned down and pressed his lips to Jordan’s head—and ran him through with the sword.

Tom wished it was over the moment he did it. That the event passed within seconds, but Jordan writhed. Unable to do anything more then grip Tom’s arm in a death grip and grasp weakly with his other, looking for purchase. Tom knew if he pulled the sword free—it would be over. But for a selfish few seconds he hesitated. He didn’t want to lose Jordan yet. He wanted to have him for as long as he could.

But it was only a few seconds those thoughts plagued him. He cared about Jordan. And so he pulled the sword free. And with it—Jordan stopped breathing. Tom sat there with the body for far too long. Watching the moon climb. Eventually, he hauled himself up and turned to look at the edge of the hill—wishing for someone else to have been there. For someone else to have showed up and told him it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done.

It had felt less painful planning it then doing it. Tom had dug a grave for Jordan before hand. The stone was missing all, but a date and Tom dragged Jordan’s body over to it. He had to blink rapidly to keep his vision from blurring and the alcohol didn’t help his coordination. He tripped and stumbled and he was pretty sure he tore Jordan’s jacket open on a rock, but he had to keep going. He hadn’t made a coffin—he didn’t know how and the wizards wouldn’t take any payment of diamonds to make him one. James had almost agreed—but that was before he had told the man who it was for.

After that, James avoided Tom. Not entirely, but he said he’d prefer to talk to Tom after _it_ was done. James couldn’t bare being around to hear of _it._

Tom had never buried a body before. The thump of dropping Jordan’s body into the grave made him feel guilty. What more was there? Jordan had been right. It hurt. He grabbed the shovel sitting in the pile of dirt and began to cover Jordan’s body. With each shovel full, he felt his vision begin to blur and soon he couldn’t hold it back anymore. In the same way coughs shook Jordan, sobs shook Tom. He had to stop half-way and collapse to his knees. Jordan was dead.

It was now just sinking in.

And Tom wanted.

Tom wanted.

Tom found Tucker—it hadn’t taken much time—and he broke down in front of his once-enemy, no longer a friend, but too defeated to give a damn about hating Tom. He cried on Tucker’s door-step, and after a hesitation—Tucker let him in. He brought Tom tea and stood there silently, arms folded. He looked down at the ground and then back up at Tom as Tom cried—silently now. He sipped the tea and kept both hands around the mug.

Tucker didn’t speak. He knew what had happened.

“Would you help me…bury him?” Tom asked.

Tucker closed his eyes in a brief solitude. “Yeah, let’s get it done and over with.”

And so they did. Tucker said nothing more—and without Tom’s say—he picked up the sword and tossed it into the grave. Tom didn’t stop him. They buried the sword with Jordan. As soon as the grave was filled—Tucker left. Left Tom sitting there and starting at it.

And it was the next night—that it would not be the first-time he sat at the cliff-side. Nor the last. Waiting expectantly for someone who would never show up. He brought a picnic blanket out. And two glasses. And a bottle of whiskey. He didn’t drink as much as he did the first few nights. Now he would pour himself a glass and watch the sunset. He would pack it all-up. Return home. And on good nights. He would sleep. Tom watched the sunset picnic blanket beside him—bottle of whiskey and two glasses sit cordially placed—in an invitation for someone who was never going to arrive.

On time.

“You depress me with your actions,” taunted a voice.

On bad nights, no one ever came.

Tom turned to look at them, a smile flitting across his features.

“Yet you keep coming back.”

Jordan’s form was hardly visible—it could be a hallucination for all Tom knew, but Tom cared less about his sanity than he did about seeing Jordan. He looked youthful again—the way Tom would like to remember him. Jordan sat at the edge of the cliff, folding one leg under him and letting the other dangle.

“Gee, I wonder where my afterlife is since my goddess is dead,” Jordan replied, but he held no malice. He just turned to look at the sunset, his form flickering with the dying light.

“Do you love me, Jordan?” Tom asked—and he knew it was cruel. If it was Jordan, there was never a crueler thing to ask a man you killed. He just wanted to know.

Jordan sighed. “I have. Ask me another day.”

“Will you always keep returning?”

Jordan stared outwards at the sea. “I never did have a choice.”

It gave Tom pause. The selfishness giving way to guilt. “Where would you go, if you could?”

Jordan stretched out, his legs raising up, and then settling as he leaned back on his arms behind him. He hummed. “I have no idea.”

“Are you real?”

“Next question,” Jordan said, running his fingers over the grass he couldn’t touch.

“Are you happy?”

Jordan looked at Tom. He thought about it. Jordan thought the question over, but he wasn’t mulling over for it for the right reasons. His eyes kept going to Tom. He settled on something. The thought went unvoiced, but Tom for a moment heard something that wasn’t said.

_I don’t want you to get worse_.

“Yes, very,” Jordan smiled at him fondly.

And Tom forgot he ever heard anything else.

 

 

 

 


End file.
